


Love Drunk

by sedirktive (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, PWP, and i mean really really drunk, dub con, ive never been drunk so don't judge me, jake gets really drunk, sex in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sedirktive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it's the alcohol talking. Maybe it's just you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Drunk

You are drunk. Utterly intoxicated. Totally wasted. Completely plastered. Past the point of no return. So inebriated that you can’t stop the drunken laughter that falls in peals from your mouth and is followed by stumbling and crashing and more laughter and oh it was nice to be alive today even though somewhere in the back of your mind you know that tomorrow morning’s hangover is going to be absolutely awful. But that was okay because all that matters is that the elevator makes everything look positively spinny and it’s kind of fun.

“Jake, buddy, you okay?”

Strider is your best friend. A real pal, he is. The best man you’ve ever had the pleasure of acquainting. The sweet bro to your hella jeff. Good thing you were taking the elevator instead of trying the stairs. You laugh loudly at your own ironic comment.

“Seriously, are you alright?” He looks funny when he’s worried, with his eyebrows all crinkled over the top of those silly shades of his. You’ve got your arm slung over his shoulder and he’s stooped over a little to accommodate the height difference. “Fuck, man, what did Roxy put in that drink?”

“Drinks,” you correct him, or, at least, attempt to. Your words may have been too slurred to be comprehendible.

But you think he gets it, because he mutters something that sound like “total lightweight” and you guess he’s just really smart. Maybe he keeps all of that smartness in his big, fancy hair.

Leaning even more heavily onto him, you reach up and comb your fingers through it, trying to find all of that smart. It’s really soft to touch and you soon end up just moving it back and forth and back and forth. But you don’t get to play with it for long, because Dirk is a big killjoy and says something about you being way out of it that you can’t hear because of your own whining.

He manages to take you back to your flat with only minor fiasco (you decided that walking was just too silly for a gentlemanly walrus like yourself, so Dirk just picked you up and carried you back). Using his elbow, he hits the switch at your bedroom door before dropping you onto your bed with an undignified thump.

Giggling, you try to hold another short conversation with him (about something which has already slipped your mind), holding onto his sleeve and moving his hand side to side playfully as you babble. Dirk sighs and tells you that you should never take anything of unknown origin ever again, but you just blow a raspberry dismissively.

“Rrroxy is a smart broad, Dirky,” you slur, rolling the R for fun, “and I com-puh-leetly trust ‘er ja-judicia-juggl- whateverr I trust her.” You stumble over your words worse than you did your own feet walking home. No wonder Roxy had such awful spelling at times. “She said that drinking a’ parties woul’ win me sex appeal.”

Dirk looks you over once. Twice. Then, he raises one hand flicks you lightly on the forehead playfully. “She wasn’t wrong, man. You’re seriously one hot mess right now.”

You sit up a little on your elbows and try to punch him on the arm, but miss by a long shot because your depth perspective is utterly thrown off by the spinning room. Defeated, you fall right back onto the pillow. “You’re only sayin’ that cuzzz i’m drunk.”

Dirk’s left eyebrow makes a quirky little twitch and he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m really not, Jake.” He taps his lips, drawn in a thin line as he searches his mental archives for the right words. “You’re as hot as a fresh english muffin popped right out of the toaster and I want nothing more right now than to split you open and put some creamy, white butter right inside.”

It’s not exactly funny, but you can’t stifle your embarrassed giggle because this is Dirk Strider talking to you. It’s the same Dirk that you met online several years ago on a silly chat roulette site. It’s the same Dirk who indubitably holds the world record for the longest poker face in the extensive history of mankind. It’s the same Dirk who has such an easy way with the ladies that his very presence in a room makes all of the damsels, blue or otherwise, swoon and sigh.

You giggle, because it’s Dirk who’s hitting on you, Jake English, explorer extraordinaire, who could never hold down a girlfriend long enough to kiss her or hold a halfway normal conversation with anyone, let alone hold anyone’s interest, without having thoroughly blurred the lines and downed at least one glass of Scotch prior to any social initiation. 

You giggle and giggle and giggle until the awkwardness in the room stifles you and chokes your laughter in your throat. He’s watching you carefully, his eyes vaguely visible beneath the pointy shades that sit on the bridge of his nose. That expression is too guarded, too gosh darn secretive for you when you’re like this. All you want is for your best bro to be happy, and maybe this is the alcohol talking, but if doing the dirty is the only way to accomplish that, then so be it.

Sitting up, you face him with a big grin on your face. “Weeellll then, Missster Strider, I s’pose that tonight’s yer night then.”

He doesn’t respond, so you continue.”Don’t feel bad or an’thing. I’m drunk and yer cute.” It’s not a lie. Even you have stolen many a long glance at that lean frame from time to time. There’s another long pause, and you lean over and run your fingers along his sculpted cheek as seductively as you can muster (if there is ever anything that watching cinematic gold has truly taught you...), letting them follow the curve of his ear to tuck a loose strand away. “Tha’s yer cue, Cassanova.”

“Jake.” Dirk’s voice is quiet. As drunk as you are, you can definitely feel a complete shift in his attitude from stoic to anxious as he moves in towards you, taking your chin in one hand and curling the other over your fingers. The first time your lips connect, it’s just a brief peck, slow, experimental and unsure. You try to encourage him, by moving in a little closer and pressing back, but he snaps his head back a little.

“Holy shit. I can’t do this, Jake. I- You’re too drunk to know what you’re saying.You’re too drunk to know what I’m saying.”

That’s true for the most part, but you do know exactly what he’s attempting to convey. And you feel a rush of affection towards your friend. How long had he harbored such silly little fantasies, such red dispositions, such chivalrous charm? It’s truly endearing. “You say you like me. And I’m saying that maaaybe I like you enough to let you love me.” It’s not completely true, but the alcohol makes it feel as though it may as well be. Your friendly is certainly good to look at, and you have heard many a wild tale of his sexual romps. 

Dirk makes a noise that is a little distressed and a little amused, and you know his self-control is turning to water between his fingers when he takes off his shades and puts finds a spot on your bedside table upon which to lay them.

And for the first time, you look him in the eyes. His real eyes. Not the ones tinted and shaded behind a pair of frames. In the dim light of the moonlight filtering into your bedroom, you can barely tell that they’re orange, but you don’t find the unusual eye color too startling. They’re exactly like him: different, but still nice in their own right. 

He leans in again.

The second time, it’s the real deal.

This kiss is full, hot-blooded, laced with a shot of desperation. There are no bounds on it, and you can feel the heat as he pushes you back down onto the mattress, following so quickly that there’s barely a break in the contact. He nestles himself between your knees as the kiss blooms. It’s exhilarating and intoxicated the way his mouth moves on yours and the room begins to tilt and whirl again. Trying to breathe, you push against his chest and take in a deep gasp of air that’s too short-lived because he cuts you off for a sloppy, open-mouthed make-out. But that’s okay, you suppose.

Hands are everywhere. Yours, his, it doesn’t matter.

Your tongues rub together and taste each other like reckless lovers behind the closed doors of your parted lips.Strider tastes a little drunk too, though more sober than you by far. Once or twice, Dirk pulls your bottom lip with his teeth, or gives your tongue a little suck.

As he kisses you, you can feel him touching touching touching touching. Those long fingers of his- the fingers he uses to wire robots and type his ironic little quips into Pester Chum- they’re all over you: entangling themselves in your hair, lightly stroking your hips, pushing up your shirt and tracing erotic circles around your nipples.

And it feels so good.

Little noises keep escaping you, tiny mmms and ahhs of consent that Dirk swallows hungrily. But air. You need air.

With your hands in his hair, you give him a couple of little tugs, gently at first, and then harder when he doesn’t let up, until eventually you’re worried that you might rip his hair right out. Which would be incredibly un-romantic.

Eventually, he gets the message, letting up to let you fill your lungs with cold gasps. Your breaths are shaky, because you’ve never been kissed like that. Well, you’ve never been kissed at all, but if that was how first kisses were supposed to go, then you aren’t quite sure why you hadn’t done this sooner.

Dirk is kissing you again, but not on the mouth. He has his face pressed against the crook of your neck, nuzzling you with his nose and ghosting his lips over your shoulder. Gently, he leaves tiny bite marks in your skin that are just hard enough to stay, but small enough to be easily hidden away under your button-up.

Of course, he doesn’t just stay put. After he’s done with your neck, he’s moving again, with his mouth on your chest, your navel, your nipples. His hands tangled with your hands, moving up your thighs. He’s kissing and touching and he’s getting faster and you’re getting hotter every time he touches you just there or lets his nails scratch just like that. 

Dirk bites you. Like, really bites you. Closes your teeth around a nipple and makes you cry out before he kisses it again, as though trying to soothe you. His name slips from your lips in a shaky, broken whisper “Dirk Dirk Dirk,” and you shiver when he does it again to the other one.

“Up,” he says shortly, tugging at your hands.

You struggle to sit up and fail to ignore the growing bulge between your legs. Cripes, when did that happen?

Dirk sees it too and, though he doesn’t openly acknowledge it, you can feel his confidence grow a little bit, especially when he practically tears your shirt off. Your glasses fly off to the side somewhere, and you would worry about whether or not they broke except Dirk has your face in his hands again and is coming in fast.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you meet him halfway, messily making your way into his mouth before he can do the same to yours as you run your fingers through his hair. With a firm hand, Dirk rubs at your crotch, and his lips curve at the corners as you mewl quietly because never in your wildest daydreams had you ever imagined anyone’s touch to lay siege to your body like this. And you’ve had some pretty wild wanderings in your passing hours. His palm is replaced with his the tips of his fingers, which drag along the bulge in your khakis maddeningly slow making you whine and bite at his tongue, which had long pushed the fight back into your mouth.

In return, you touch him back, doing your best to run seductive (albeit shaking) fingers up his arms. Along his collarbone. Grazing his cheeks. Before you can run your fingers along his torso, he pulls away. Dirk pulls back and off, pushing down on your stomach and shushing you, telling you stay down.

He strips casually, as though he wasn’t being watched, and it makes you embarrassed just watching him do it. Nonetheless, you stare as he pulls something out of his pants pocket before pulling away at the belt. Seeing his tall, languid form shuck his shirt and dark jeans is sexy beyond belief. Seeing the jutting outline of his erection through his orange boxers is sexy. Seeing that glint in his eyes, that fire, that caged beast rearing its head is sexy. And what’s sexier still is seeing his lean form in the dimly lit room strutting towards you, hips swaying slow.

The bed moans as he crawls back onto it, pulling your legs open and settling between them. His fingers graze the dark line of pubic hair that trails up your stomach. “This is your last chance, Jake. Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Fear churns in a funny place near your stomach. You’d never admit it to him. You’d never dare to let it show. But you’re scared- frightened by the prospect of what you’re allowing Dirk to do, by how it’s making you feel, and what might happen when you wake up and realize it all again when you’re sober. But you want this. Maybe you’ve always wanted this. “Do it,” you murmur, looking anywhere in the room but at his face because if your eyes meet, you may just back down.

Undoing your jeans, he does “it.” Which is to say, he parts his lips and takes you in swallows you whole does something magical with his tongue and teeth that just oh! it makes you writhe and moan and this time you can’t hold back you can’t keep quiet you can’t keep it in you’re losing it losing yourself losing your sanity to this heat this mouth this man this-

You orgasm, and it’s over. Or at least, you think it is, as you slump backwards onto the bed, still gasping as the sweat trickles down the side of your face. “Blimey.” The word rides one of your outgoing breaths as you see Dirk’s throat working. Dear goodness. Did he just swallow your …?

This makes you mildly uncomfortable, yet once again you can feel your penis working its way up. He sees it, and you cover your face with your hands because he sees it. Could this have been a bad idea after all?

After a pause, there is a faint popping sound that jumps around your room. Peeking between your digits, you can see Dirk with that bottle of something that he pulled out of his jeans earlier. A thin trickle of … something...falls onto his open palm. He’s not going to do his hair, is he?

Dirk doesn’t do his hair. Instead, he coats it across his long fingers, scissoring to make sure that there is a good amount on his pointer and middle digits especially. When he’s satisfied, he turns back to you, who hides behind his hands again.

“Jake.” His lips are by your ear and his whispered words reverberate down your spine in form of a lusty shudder. “Can you get undressed?”

Not wanting to remove your hands from your face, you shake your head vigorously.

“Do you want me to stop? I could just go to your bathroom and just-”

You shake your head again. He sighs.

“You’re the stupidest babe that i’ve ever fallen for, Jake.” His tone is teasing, disgruntled, and affectionate all at the same time. Single-handedly, he undoes your belt and pulls your pants away, yanks your underwear off, and strips you of your pride (no pun intended) until you’re nothing but a boy who can’t hide his desires with some clothing and a quick run to the washroom occasionally.

And maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you feel like nothing more (and nothing less) than a boy in love, nervous and foolish and unsure. Maybe that’s just you.

“Jake. Look at me.”

You do it. Compelled simply by the melodious tenor of his voice, you find yourself looking, not at your palms, but at Dirk.

Dirk looks back at you, and your heart stops. He looks so earnest, so open, and as confident as you’d ever seen him. His eyes almost glow, lit by the moonlight intruding through your partially-closed curtains.

You try to be witty, to laugh off the shock of being stared straight in the face by (apologies for the cliche) an angel. “I-I’m looking,” you stutter out.

To your relief, his lips curve into a smile. “Jake.”

“Yes dear?” You tremble in your feeble attempt to match wits. Your heart is threatening to strife with your ribcage.

He shakes his head. “Jake.”

“What?”

“Jake.”

You’re not sure what he wants, but he ooks you straight in the eyes, and you’re willing to make a venture. “Dirk?”

His smile becomes a grin that show his teeth, like the sun breaking a cloud cover. “Jake.”

“Dirk.”

“I love you.”

He says it so plainly, and yet it’s enough to make your heart quit working altogether. Never in all your years has anyone’s words ever seemed like so little, yet meant so much. And before you have a chance to think, you say it too.

Dirk disarms you with a peck to the lips.

It’s slow, not like the other kisses, but it resuscitates your heart rate. His mouth is soft on yours, asking, but not taking. You give in, parting your lips a little and running your tongue along the edge of his mouth.

Shifting, Dirk repositions himself over you, pushing you down and your legs up with his hands to create a space for himself. One hand leaves the trace of a thick, oily finger marks on your knee. He quite literally almost rolls onto you as the kiss matures. You decide that you particularly enjoy the way Dirk will completely fill your mouth at one second and then allow you to chase him back out the next.

With his oil-slicked hand, he rubs you between the legs. You let out yet another unmasculine squeak when his begins to finger you, running the tip of his finger around the rim of the small hole. What is he doing?

The question was pointless- Dirk answered it with a quick inward thrust of a finger. Your back arched, not out of pleasure, but rather out of shock. Of all the things that he could have done, this might have been the last one you would have expected. “Take it out,” you say, squirming. “This is weird, Dirk. Take it out!”

“Shhh.” He kisses the side of your face. “I can make it better. Just trust me.” He doesn’t make any puns, or use that blasted cryptic irony of his.

You want to complain. You want to understand. You end up listening to him, frowning as he begins to move the finger slowly. After a few moments, he seems satisfied with… whatever he seems to be doing and shifts his finger again to –

The second finger stings a bit. You hiss with discomfort and wriggle as he pushes them both in. Dirk is trying to be gentle, but that doesn’t mean that you’re entirely comfortable when he moves his fingers in and out in an imitation of a man thrusting into his lover.

Oh.

You chew your lip when it hits you; Dirk is actually going to “split you open and put some creamy, white butter right inside.” 

But before you can worry any more about it, Dirk hits something inside of you that must be the secret mystic treasure at the heart of the shrine of gay sex that makes your back arch as a toe-curling pleasure runs straight up your body. You shout something incoherent. Once you’ve finally settled back down, you look at Dirk with a wild, unfocused stare.

“Better?” He asks as he shifts his fingers again to ghost over OH! that spot again.

You nod, unable to say much else as Dirk reduces you to what a plate of gelatin must feel like. Granted, gelatin can neither scream nor beg Dirk Strider for oh god more, but that was beside the point. It barely even hurts when he adds a third finger.

Just as you’re on the brink of release, Dirk withdraws like the cunning bastard he is. Deep in the recesses of your conscience, you are ashamed of the animalistic little noise you make, though you can do nothing more but sit up when Dirk tells you to.

He guides you, which is good because you can barely feel your legs. Settling you over his erection, Dirk gives you another kiss. “This is a DIY job, Jake. And it’s your choice. If you don’t want to do it, we can stop now.”

You almost feel as though you’ve been backed into a corner. How could you possibly stop now, with this man sitting beneath you like you’ve got all the choice in the matter and pretending that he doesn’t need anything so long as you’re happy? How could you, when maybe, just maybe, he might never come back if you don’t? How could you? You couldn’t.

You’re panting softly as you position yourself over his penis. Every breath makes you shudder as he draws your hands up to his mouth, kisses each one worshipfully, and then places them on his shoulders. “C’mon, babe. C’mon.”

It burns. It burns as you sink down onto it, though you are positive it would have been worse by a hundredfold if he hadn’t stretched you as thoroughly as he did. His erection slowly stretches you open further than his fingers could have prepared you for, and it burns in a very good way.

Dirk groans as your grip on his shoulder tightens from hard to bruising, and his breathing is almost as choppy and hard as yours and you can hear him muttering curse words under his breath every time you move a little bit more. “Fuck, Jake, relax,” he breathes into your ear. “You’re never getting it in this way.”

“I c-can do it,” you say as you push down a little more and oh help it’s not even halfway in yet.

Reaching out, Dirk grasps your penis and starts to stroke it fast and fervently and you almost orgasm again because oh oh oh it feels so good and he slams his hips up into yours and you let out the most sexual cry yet because he’s all the way in you and it hurts but he’s in and it’s good yes oh yes you feel filled until he pulls it out again before using his free hand to shove you back down and it strikes that spot in you that leaves some scratches on Dirk’s shoulders.

You establish a pace quickly, short and fast thrusts in as you bob your hips up and down onto him. The faster you go, the more you hit that spot. Neither of you can stay quiet now; you’ve both dissolved into grunts and moans and babbling each others’ names and kissing each other.

And when you arc back, you cum. Your muscles tense as you lean forward to muffle your cries with Dirk’s mouth.

He releases inside of you, his apology streaming out when does so, but you don’t care because a warmth is blossoming in your chest, a warmth that is a rediscovery of your old feelings, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

Though you’re too physically exhausted to do anything else, a little sound escapes you as he pulls himself out. Dirk lays you out onto your bed reverently and tucks you in. After watching you for a moment, he prepares to get dressed and leave.

But he can’t leave. Not when the warmth shakes at the thought. Not when you reach out and grab his hand weakly.

“Stay, Dirk,” you say. And it’s not the alcohol talking. It’s your heart. “I-” You choke on the words, but your eyes do the talking for you.

Dirk looks at you for a moment that feels suspended in eternity. Or something embarrassing and romantic like that. You tug at his hand again and he sighs as he gets into the bed with you. His arms fall around your waist and settle and, albeit with a shy demeanor, you plant a little peck on his mouth. You marvel at just how warm he is. For the first time, you realize just how strongly his heart pulses, just how loudly it drums, just how rhythmically it bumps against his bare chest.

His heart is just like yours.

In his embrace, you drift off to the feeling of your hearts beating in time.


End file.
